All At Sea
by Kay Taylor
Summary: HoratioArchie. Horatio learns to find his sea legs, and the way to Archie's arms.


Horatio had never been to sea before, never so much as set foot on a ship, and joining the King's Navy was the bravest - as well as the foolhardiest - thing he'd ever done. Even as a midshipman, the lurch and heave of the ocean had him feeling slightly off-balance as soon as the ship left Portsmouth, and an odd sense of displacement accompanied him on shore leave; as though the cobbled streets were merely biding their time, waiting for the perfect swell to rise up and meet him. But, wherever he went, the ocean was always with him - in the salt crust on his jacket, the tang of sea air in Archie's hair. As if he was never far from the coast.  
  
It took him several years to get comfortable with it, to be able to catch an hour's sleep in a hammock, or be able to climb the rigging without a sickening knot of dread in his stomach at the way the ropes bounced and shifted under him. Still longer to be able to get rid of some of that damnable pride. And, once it had gone, he'd found that he didn't miss it all that much. His men hadn't even noticed the difference, but for Horatio it was liberating and terrifying all at once - to stake his shore wages on a turn of cards, not knowing if he'd be living off bread for weeks. To finally let Archie into his cabin and into his heart, as a brother, where he'd been meant to be all along.  
  
"You don't have to hang it up," Archie pointed out quietly, watching as Horatio shook the jacket into shape; smoothing out the creases along the arms, running his hands over the epaulettes. His deft fingers fastened up the first two buttons, letting the collar keep its shape. "Just let it go."  
  
But Horatio, back to Archie, just shrugged - folding the jacket in half neatly and placing it over the back of his chair, gold buttons gleaming in the candlelight. Archie knew that his friend had gone without shore leave for his new uniform. He knew that Horatio wanted nothing more than to look his rank. And as Horatio glanced at him over his shoulder - crisp brown curls falling just so onto the crisp white linen, stiff with sea air - Archie found himself looking at his own jacket, thrown carelessly on the floor. And suddenly felt oddly vulnerable, to be stripped to the waist and sitting on Horatio's bed, while Horatio was finding his uniform more interesting than him.  
  
"Horatio," he said quietly, and slipped off the bed, a few paces away from the chair, the jacket, and the odd squareness of Horatio's shoulders. He placed his hand on Horatio's arm. "May I - "  
  
Then Horatio looked up, and Archie felt doubly vulnerable by the strange confusion in his friend's eyes, the way his gaze raked over the rise and fall of Archie's chest, from the dip of his collarbone to the sparse gold hairs below his navel. It was as if he was being read, Archie realised; like a map of the Archipelago, the way Horatio lent over his charts, sextant in hand.  
  
Horatio swallowed. "Archie," he said, tearing his gaze away.  
  
Archie paused, watching the way Horatio's fingers faltered on the buttons. "Oh, to hell with it," he said suddenly, and put his arms around Horatio's waist. Suddenly, they were both still, and there was nothing but the hammering of Horatio's heart in his chest, the warmth of his skin under the linen shirt, his slow exhalation and the smell of his hair.  
  
"What about the Articles?" Archie had said, three months ago, leaning against the bulwark. It was quiet, and they had had to lean towards each other to hear - silhouettes in the lamplight, the curve of Archie's back and the tilt of Horatio's hips. Archie swallowed, seeing a shadow cross Horatio's face.  
  
The Articles of War. Punishment by death.  
  
"Damn the Articles," Horatio had said, his voice hoarse and lovely. It had been cold, and Archie had found himself shivering. He could see Horatio's fists clench. "Damn them. I don't know what - ah, Archie, I don't know what we should do - "  
  
"Stay quiet," Archie had said, looking away for a moment. "Stay quiet, and be discreet, and - "  
  
He hadn't had enough time to finish his sentence before Horatio's weight was against him; and he had been warm, and strong, and Archie had wanted him so desperately it ached. Horatio's hands had been on his shoulders, his face close enough for Archie to feel the heat of his breath. And Archie had breathed, "Ah, Horatio - ", feeling for a long, crazy moment that the world was going to stop, and that all the deaths the Articles could deal would be worth it to feel the warmth of Horatio's lips, just for one moment.  
  
"It's not about the jacket, is it?" Archie said slowly, feeling Horatio starting to unbend, to relax in his arms. "Horatio, you're - "  
  
"Afraid," he said, bitterly.  
  
"Of the Articles?" Archie asked, feeling his own heart start to hammer. Automatically, he glanced at the cabin door; locked and bolted. He risked shifting his weight, pulling Horatio to him. "They won't find out. We'll be quiet - "  
  
He felt Horatio shake his head - damp curls brushing against his bare skin, a spreading warmth which started in his chest and flooded down to his groin. "It's not the Articles," Horatio said quietly, sounding as though the words were being wrung from him under pain of death.  
  
"It's this."  
  
Archie felt as though he was going to be sick. Even so, he couldn't take his arms from Horatio - couldn't bear to draw away from his warmth, the comforting weight of his body. Light-headed, he struggled to get the words out. "You don't - you don't want this."  
  
It had been a cold day in Portsmouth, five months previously, that Archie Kennedy and Horatio Hornblower had first come to an understanding. Cold enough for the horses to breathe pillars of steam, and for the dock workers to warm their hands over glowing coals; cold enough for Archie to have his head down, not looking where he was going, as he hurried from garrison to supplier. And he had walked head-first into Horatio, where he had been admiring the ship's sails from the shore.  
  
"Horatio!"  
  
"My apologies - "  
  
And Archie had noticed that Horatio had dropped his navigation papers. Stooping low to retrieve them, flushing a little at his clumsiness, Archie had been surprised when Horatio had bent down as well.  
  
And for that brief moment, the bustle of Portsmouth on a winter's day shrank to Horatio's eyes and the curve of his mouth. As plainly and as tangible as if Archie had whispered, "Oh, I _want_ you," in a crowded street, and Horatio had heard him from a hundred yards away.  
  
Horatio had smiled - so uncertain, that smile - and said, "I'll see you back on board." Archie had handed him the papers, and their fingers touched briefly.   
  
Archie had carried on to the ship's suppliers, feeling as though the world was pitching and rolling around him like the deck in a storm.  
  
Horatio heard Archie's voice, but for a heart-numbing moment he couldn't get the sense of the words, could only think about how tightly Archie was holding him, how his arms were dusted with pale golden hair. But then he understood, and it was like plunging into the sea - everything drowned and muted.  
  
"Archie, it's not like that."  
  
"It's exactly like that, Horatio."  
  
"No."  
  
Horatio forced himself to stand up, to slide out of the warmth of Archie's arms, tipping his jacket onto the floor. "It's not like that - oh, God, Archie, how can you not _see_?"  
  
He turned around, trying to compose himself. An officer's bearing, back straight, shoulders square. And caught the light of Archie's hair, the warm gold candlelight like sun off the ocean. And saw the look on Archie's face. So proud. But so incredibly - naked - and nothing to do with his jacket and shirt tossed impatiently on the floor. No, Horatio realised, the nakedness was written there on Archie's face.  
  
"Permission to leave," Archie said quietly. "I shouldn't have done this."  
  
Beautiful, and before Horatio knew it he was stepping forwards, taking his friend into his arms, feeling the faint tremor as Archie acquiesced.  
  
"Permission not granted, Mr Kennedy," Horatio whispered, his mouth dry. Then, feeling the strange way his hands were trembling, he realised that this was more frightening than boarding the French frigate, or a hundred days in the Spanish prison; to be holding Archie Kennedy, and feeling the most appalling kind of _want_, and the door to be locked and bolted, with no-one to disturb them until seven bells.  
  
"Oh, I think I see," Archie murmured, and his breath was against Horatio's neck, warm and moist. Then - "Horatio, let me look at you."  
  
Reluctantly, Horatio let go of Archie, stepping back and searching his face. Archie's eyes were wide open. His lips were parted.  
  
"Archie," Horatio began nervously, before he was silenced.  
  
"To hell with the Articles," Archie whispered, and kissed him gently, pulling his hair loose of the queue to tumble over his shoulders in a wave of curls.  
  
Horatio had always been frightened of Archie's fits - the rolling and shaking, the horrible and utter loss of control that accompanied them. But he never forgot the look on Archie's face when he would wake up to find Horatio leaning over him; in the unfocused split-second before consciousness, it was as though he was utterly content, eyes fixed somewhere far away that Horatio would never be able to see. A few times, Horatio had been able to get to Archie before he crumpled to deck; clutching Archie in his arms as he became rigid, then pliant - relaxing into Horatio's embrace. The only time they would ever be permitted by the Articles to touch. That long slow slide of Archie's weight against Horatio's body, the panic that always crossed Horatio's mind, the fear that Archie might not come back.  
  
And he had always had to stop himself from pressing his lips to Archie's unconscious ones, from kissing the corners of his smile.   
  
Horatio couldn't even tell why he wanted to. Why he would be sitting up with Archie, watching over him, utterly terrified that his body would betray his mind; opening up his heart and getting them both hanged.  
  
Horatio couldn't pull away, couldn't stammer excuses; could only close his eyes in awe and reverence as Archie's lips moved softly on his. He was so close, their noses nudging together, the faint stubble of his jawline against Horatio's cheek. It was utterly bewildering, to have Archie's hand cupping his face, to have Archie coaxing his mouth open. And Horatio could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks at the first faint touch of Archie's tongue to his lips.  
  
He pulled away. "Archie, I'm sorry, I don't - I'm not used to - "  
  
"Then let me show you." Archie's voice was low and earnest.   
"Please, Horatio."  
  
Horatio nodded, slowly.  
  
"Well, then." And Archie looked at him carefully, the tip of his tongue darting out to touch his bottom lip, his hand still cupping Horatio's face. And Horatio met him half-way, his hands coming up of their own accord to comb through Archie's tangled hair, opening his mouth and his heart and everything he had to Archie. Archie's mouth tasted slightly sweet, ever so warm, and their tongues met clumsily, making Horatio clutch at Archie's hair, feeling the room spin around them.  
  
Archie laughed softly. "Off balance, Horatio? I don't think I've ever seen that." He was answered with another kiss, longer than the first; with Horatio's hands sliding over his bare back and, hesitantly, going to the buttons of his own shirt.  
  
And after that, it was as though the world disappeared. There were still longer kisses, and Horatio's hair, dark on the pillow, rising up to meet Archie like the crest of a wave, falling and dipping at his touch. There were Archie's eyes wide open in delight, snatches of whisper -  
  
"God, Archie, your _mouth_ - "  
  
"Please don't, ah, don't stop - "  
  
"Let me show you - "  
  
- and skin slick with sweat. And Horatio would hesitate, and Archie would show him the way, and for a moment all would subside again, in gasps and kisses and the slow motion of their bodies together.  
  
"Oh, Horatio. To _hell_ with the Articles," Archie murmured; and not for the first time, Horatio was inclined to agree.  
  
It took Horatio years to get used to the ocean, and still more to get rid of that damnable pride. It was there in the smallest of things, really; looking up to the mainstay and seeing Archie watching him, silhouetted against the blue of the sky. Catching Archie when he had his fits, and having the courage to press his lips to Archie's forehead, so that wherever Archie might be travelling, so alone and still, he would know that Horatio needed him to come back. Just as he could walk on the deck without seasickness, he could open his cabin door to Archie after second watch, open his arms and his lips and his heart.


End file.
